


Silk

by neville



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance, Triwizard Tournament
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 18:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12195687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neville/pseuds/neville
Summary: There’s a boy on his own at the end of the Gryffindor table; it’s a neverending clique of burgundy robes, and then him. Viktor can’t help but feel attracted, like magnetism - one loner to another.





	Silk

There’s a boy on his own at the end of the Gryffindor table; it’s a neverending clique of burgundy robes, and then  _him_  - he’s separated, a good way aways from anything that constitutes a filled chair, and poking lamely at his food with his fork; Viktor can’t help but feel  _attracted_ , like magnetism - one loner to another, and he takes a seat opposite the Gryffindor boy.

“Is it okay?” he asks, and the boy looks up from his messy tufts. 

“Oh,” he says shyly. “Yeah. It’s okay. But no-one will think you’re cool if you sit here.”

Viktor blinks. What does it matter if he’s  _cool_? He’s not going to be accepted into the Tournament on merits of social popularity, that’s for sure, and with a grunt that reads something like mild anarchy, he stays.

-

The boy’s name is Neville; this is information Viktor only garners when he hears the screech through the hallway, usually accompanied by a runaway toad and/or a clatter. Viktor thinks it’s rather a nice name. It suits him and his pleasantly round features.

Awkwardly, he crouches and picks up the toad, waiting patiently to catch sight of Neville’s curls. It’s inevitable. 

-

Viktor never exchanges words with Neville; it’s not a part of their daily exchanges of looks and thoughts, and so when it happens, it’s rare, cherishable, enough to put in the Durmstrang school paper. He’s asleep in the school library when they talk for the first real time, face buried between the pages of a Herbology journal, his chest rising and falling with gentle snores. 

He’s cute, unbelievably so: he’s got notes beside him, written in handwriting painstakingly lettered for readability, parchment in huge rolls of the stuff, and his fingers are lightly blackened with ink. 

But Pince is patrolling, and the quiet has to end.

Viktor places a hand on Neville’s shoulder, squeezing. “Neville,” he whispers. “Neville.”

Neville starts, suddenly, lifting his head, eyes bleary with sleep. “Huh? What’s going on?”

“The woman,” Viktor says, and Neville almost jumps out of his seat, throwing his parchment and books with reckless abandon into his bag and hurrying, Viktor by his side, out the door; nothing good ever comes of being in the library at closing time, and Neville’s fallen asleep so many times it’s ingrained in him. “What were you doing?”

Neville’s so unused to Viktor speaking that it takes him a moment to work through the layers of his accent. 

“Oh, um, I was just looking for stuff.” Neville squeezes the strap of his backpack, nerve-wracked. “For the Task. I wondered if there was some kind of plant that could help; I really like Herbology, so I thought it could be good for homework, too… but I didn’t find anything.”

Viktor smiles; nobody’s ever done anything for him so selflessly; thoughtlessly easy. “Thank you.”

Neville flushes. “I don’t know if you should thank me. I haven’t found anything yet.”

-

(Neville doesn’t find anything; he’s almost too ashamed to turn out, but he does, Dean coaxing him out of the dorm. 

“Doesn’t matter if you didn’t find anything,” he says. “You tried. He’ll appreciate it.” 

Neville chews at his nail. “Will he, though?”)

-

Viktor’s arms are lightly scorched when he eats dinner with Neville that evening; and they spend the night in the greenhouses, rubbing mushed-up plant along the shining red burns. 

“Does it hurt?” Neville asks, frowning lightly. 

“No,” says Viktor. (It hurts; but Neville’s frown is harangued by such worry that he feel like there’s no choice but to lie - but it doesn’t hurt so much that it’s unbearable, and if it makes Neville happy, then is it a problem?) 

“Okay. But - but tell me if it does, okay?”

“Okay,” says Viktor, and suppresses a smile.

-

It’s just breakfast, lunches, and dinners until then, where neither of them exchange words, as ever; but it doesn’t really matter, not to Viktor, and Neville’s thankful for the idea that anyone would sit with him - he loves it, really. Friends are something he never feels like he gets to have - unless Viktor is there.

That’s their comfort zone, and the way they understand each other: Neville through his desperate over-reading, trying to be as on top of his classes as possible, Viktor in his stony silence, the only way to read his thoughts being where his eyes so happen to fall.

Some month or two before the Second Task, his eyes start to fall on Harry; and Neville starts to spend more time in the library.

-

“Will you go with me?” Viktor asks suddenly, out of nowhere; Neville looks up, mid-spoonful of porridge. The furrow of his brow belies his confusion, and Viktor continues, carefully. “To the Ball.”

“I-” Neville flusters, not entirely sure what to do with any part of himself as he shifts, letting his porridge drip from the spoon at dropping consistency. “I’d love to,” he mumbles. “If they’ll let me.”

“If they don’t,” Viktor says seriously, “I will complain.”

Neville has to cover his mouth to stop himself bursting into laughter, and Viktor looks at him with just a tinge of not understanding; the rest of the look is the affection with which they’ve been trading in spoonfuls throughout the year, and Neville settles down, right back into their usual comfort. 

-

Neville practises his dancing the whole way through to the Ball, waltzing with his pillow when he hopes that no-one is watching; he’s determined not to fuck this one up, because Merlin, that’s what he always does, but he wants everything to go well for Viktor, someone he can understand, an outsider just like him.

And Viktor is so handsome it just steals his breath and his rationality away; when he takes Viktor’s hand to take to the dancefloor, everything he’s learned evacuates him, and his feet just trail Viktor’s shyly as he stares up at the impassive Bulgarian. 

They sit down fairly quickly - Viktor would rather dance, of course, because he doesn’t know how to use his words the way that so many people seem to be able to, but Neville’s trodden on his feet and he’s trodden on Neville’s and it feels compulsory to have a break to let the Gryffindor stretch his weary toes.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Viktor asks, watching as teen after teen spins past him in a strange, slow-motion merry-go-round. 

“Well, I’m just not very good at dancing… I’m sorry, I’m embarrassing you in front of everybody,” Neville mumbles, eyelids fluttering as he stares down at the floor; but Viktor isn’t having this. Neville is a tripping mess of anxiety and bumbling shyness, and he just wishes that Neville knew he was worth so much more - he’s the company that Viktor doesn’t get back home, the real company to Viktor’s Triwizard fanclub, somebody who cares and falls asleep at the threat of being screamed out the library for him, somebody who puts selflessness over overdue Potions essays. 

“You are not,” Viktor says, with so much emphasis that he worries for a moment that he’s actually scared Neville - but Neville’s spent so many years being taught by Snape that he’s unflinching in the face of a raised voice, more scared by cynicism and wit than shouting. “You are important to me, or I would not have asked you here.” 

“But… I’m just clumsy, and stupid.”

Viktor reaches over, grabbing Neville’s hand. “But you are not any of those things to me! You are  _important_ , Neville. I do not care if you walk into tables, or that your writing is not neat. I care that you are kind and think of me.” 

Neville’s so red he almost matches the red of Viktor’s usual coat; but he’s lost, now, drowned in a wash of feelings that come up to swallow him whole, and he lowers his head onto Viktor’s shoulder as Viktor brushes a hand through Neville’s hair. “I treasure you,” says Viktor.

The corridor is quiet when they decide to head back to their respective rooms, a little earlier than the ending of the Yule Ball; Neville’s always been easily tired, and Viktor isn’t exactly the biggest fan of the Weird Sisters, and they step outside together, Viktor walking Neville back to the common room.

“Good night,” he says, and leans forward, touching his lips to Neville’s forehead; when he leaves, Neville is torn: he wants to leave his forehead alone, adorned just with Viktor’s lips, but he wants to touch it.

His breath catches. Dean is back, early, and he looks up; Seamus has crashed in his lap. He raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Neville breathes. “Yeah.”

-

Time passes. The feeling of Viktor’s lips on his forehead wash away, and yet the feeling of familiarity over the breakfast table never end.

-

“It’s Gillyweed,” Neville says, pressing the  _thing_  into Viktor’s hand. “It’ll mean that you can breathe underwater - but I don’t know how long it lasts, so - don’t be too slow, please? I don’t want you to drown.”

Viktor stares back up at him; this is all out of nowhere, really - Neville’s run up to him in the corridor, all out of puff and red-cheeked, his eyes shining with that stupid Gryffindor earnesty that Viktor always sees from him.

“Thank you,” he says, surprised. “I will be quick.”

“Good luck,” says Neville, and disappears off down the corridor. Viktor closes his hand around the plant.

-

Viktor expects many things, but he doesn’t expect Neville paralysed at the bottom of the Lake; he bursts back through the surface of the water first, Neville’s eyes wide and terrified when they emerge, his dark hair plastered to his forehead and his pupils wide.

He looks like he wants to scream, but he doesn’t have the voice, and so instead he clings to Viktor, desperate. Viktor doesn’t let go, not even when they’re back to safety and towel-wrapped; Neville keeps close, even when his heart has calmed again, listening to the heartbeat that thrums in Viktor’s veins. 

-

The Third Task always looms, and Neville waits almost as anxiously for its arrival as the Champions do; his hand shakes slightly when he eats breakfast, and though Viktor tries not to notice, he inevitably does.

“I will be fine,” he assures Neville. “I will come back.”

“Please do,” Neville says. “I need you to come back.”

“I promise you. I will.” Viktor runs a thumb across the back of Neville’s hand, and though it almost does, it doesn’t reassure, in the end.

-

It’s never truly summer in Scotland, and Neville always finds himself bundled up a few layers too thick for English weather - and also finds himself spending ever more time with Viktor out on the grounds and during the day, from just late afternoons with little to do to wanderings between classes.

They never really say anything to each other, save to ask how the other is doing; for Neville, how his studies are; for Viktor, how is he approaching what Neville views as inevitable doom. They discuss the situation at Hogwarts and the students sometimes when they park themselves on the grass to relax, and Viktor watches the scudding of the clouds.

“If I did die in the Tournament,” he says, “it would be a good end. I have had a good year, thanks to you.”

“Please don’t die,” Neville implores, again; it’s almost become his catchphrase, one grown out of desperation and possibly giving too much credence to the wild rumours that surround Harry and Cedric. He presses his head to the warmth of Viktor’s padded shoulder, and holds on to Viktor’s arm. “I’d miss you.”

“And from death,” says Viktor, “I would miss you, too.”

-

The Third Task looms, waiting like a boggart in a cupboard, and Neville descends on the week of the task almost into hysteria; Viktor has the patience for him, well-acquainted with Neville’s nervous disposition, and the only thing he doesn’t expect is the sudden quieting of Neville’s interpersonal histrionics with him the day before the Final Task, a day that they choose to spend mostly outdoors in the slightly crisp cool of the air.

“You are quiet,” Viktor notes.

“I’m sorry,” says Neville. “I shouldn’t have been so worried. You can handle yourself. I’m such an embarrassment.”

“You are never,” Viktor insists, putting an arm around Neville; he’s more of a physical comfort, his words always seeming to lack the punch that most people do - but then that would make him just like Neville: not quite right. Neville appreciates his words, though, because even if they seem hollow to their tones, they’re well-chosen if they’ve been allowed to pass Viktor’s lips. “I hope you will still care for me if I do not win.”

“I’d love you even if you pulled out now,” Neville says unflinchingly. “Or tripped over a rock, or fell into something. I would like you if your wand backfired and turned you into a weasel, or if you were so nervous you couldn’t even cast lumos. I would care about you if you fainted from fright or got hit by a Blast-Ended Skrewt or if you did so badly you got minus points, because I like you and not just those stupid Triwizard points because yeah, I get it, it’s a marker of your skills prowess, but that’s not what I’m with you for.”

Viktor grins; it’s an expression of such fierce joy that Neville’s mouth is still a round circle when Viktor leans in to kiss it, moulding Neville’s lips back into their normal shape and then beyond, into art and sculpture. Physically, it’s terrible - but the act of their connection means the world to Neville, and he’s speechless when they pull back from each other, having tasted a little too much of the other.

“I shall come in first for you,” Viktor says. “Or third. Or any place that you like. But I shall return for you.”

Neville’s eyes soften, almost glistening. He feels like he never has before: understood, treasured, a friend (or more, now, he supposes). “I’ll be rooting you on,” he says simply, and beams.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! I love this a lot and loved writing it and please feel free to come yell at me on Tumblr over @chrlieweasleys or, if you have any suggestions for more of this ship, I'd love to hear them!


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